16 september 2019
An Elegy
The abundance spills on my
torn shirt, when I was
gathering your voice.
The affiliated sore
begins to fester in your face―
after flying a kite.
It blurs, when you give
a speech, manipulating the lives
of innocent bystanders.
When you were heaving the numbers,
I was holding on the poems, like coins
not your paper thoughts.
Being blind was not becoming
a Buddha in the garden.
Suicides were increasing every day.
31 july 2025
wiesiek
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt
31 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
wiesiek
30 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
absynt
30 july 2025
absynt